“Immanuel, you do not have to do that.”
“I want to,” he replied with a weak smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I was wondering if I could have Mr. Fenice’s address. I would like to send him a letter to—,” he paused, biting the edge of his lip with his eyetooth before continuing, “to thank him for showing me around London. It was very kind of him.”
“Of course. I’m certain he will appreciate that.”
With the dishes done and the address in hand, he thanked her in little more than a whisper and darted out. She sighed, wondering if Immanuel’s illness was more than just one of the body. All of the progress of the past two days was gone, but at least he hadn’t retreated behind the typewriter again. Eliza had nearly invited him to come with them for she feared leaving him alone after his rapid spiral into melancholy, but she knew he would refuse anyway.
As the steamer came to a stop, Eliza Hawthorne ran her eyes over the brick façade and empty window boxes before coming to rest on the wrought iron fence. Nothing on the homely exterior indicated that this house was where spirits and souls gathered to be spoken to, where men and women dipped below the veil of death to discover secrets and reunite loved ones for a brief moment. The address on the note Lord Rose sent matched the one on the house, but Eliza told the cabby to wait until they were safely ensconced inside before leaving. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a group of people who believed they could talk to ghosts, but she had assumed the Spiritualist society would have a spectral air rather than appearing as benign as any respectable middle class home. Emmeline flounced ahead and rang the bell, admiring her reflection in the brass numbers of the door as they waited. While her aunt came in her usual subdued, brown gown, Emmeline had donned her best new dress, which was fashioned from a rich violet taffeta, and reminded her of one that had been her mother’s favorite.
When the door swung open, she held her head high, straining to reach her aunt’s height. A plump, white-haired woman with a genial grin and grandmotherly eyes allowed them in and took their coats. The front hall of the Spiritualist society was bedecked in dark wood but brightened with floral wallpaper and matching rugs. The stained glass window on the landing depicted birds and butterflies in flight, and trailing on either side of the stairs were portraits of mediums and benefactors gazing down at visitors from their mosaic of frames. Women’s voices chattered softly somewhere beyond the hall, but Eliza could not make out what they were saying.
“Lord Rose is expecting you,” the housekeeper murmured as she raised the velvet curtain that cordoned off the front parlor from the rest of the house.
“Ah, Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, welcome to the London Spiritualist Society,” Alastair Rose said as he stood behind a table set for tea. “What a pleasure it is to see you both. We never do get the chance to see each other outside of business matters, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Yes, but I so rarely require a medium. Lord Rose, you must send your brother our felicitations on his engagement. I saw the announcement in the morning paper.”
Lord Rose’s face stiffened, but he caught himself and grinned. “I am sure Alexander and Miss Waters will be quite happy together, especially since they will be moving into Eidolic Hall after the wedding.”
Eliza smiled but wasn’t certain if she liked the nobleman. During his rare visits to their home, he was confrontational and coarse, but today he actually seemed to play the part life had assigned to him. Maybe he did have a certain affection for her niece. Emmeline, who was apparently more intimately acquainted with him than the Hawthornes, seemed quite taken with him. She stared into his jacinth eyes and blushed each time he doled out tea or words of praise for her outfit or hat. Even her voice rose to meet Alastair’s questions, taking on a womanly ring while losing its quarrelsome dissonance with every reply.
“Lord Rose,” the doctor’s wife began as she set her tea aside, “I am curious as to what sort of education the Spiritualists have to offer Emmeline. You said her mother would want her to continue, but James and I have little idea as to what Madeline started.”
“The education Lady Jardine began was that of a spiritual nature. I trust that her intellectual education is more than taken care of in your capable hands, but she was raised a Spiritualist. As the daughter of a renowned medium, she is expected to follow in her mother’s footsteps if she is willing to,” he raised his gaze to meet the girl’s large, brown eyes, “embrace her gift.”
“I do!” Emmeline cried a little quicker and louder than she intended. “Mama said I have the same gift as she had, and I want to be as good as she was one day. I want to learn how to help people like she did.”
He continued without acknowledging the young woman’s outburst. “Some of our reasons for wanting to nurture Emmeline’s gifts are selfish. Ever since the Fox sisters admitted to being frauds, we have been trying to ensure that those with natural gifts are encouraged to use them. Emmeline and her mother come from a long line of spiritually precocious women. To begin with, I would like to test her ability to do readings if that is all right with you.”
Eliza Hawthorne nodded, and once they finished their tea and cakes, they were led up the stairs to the floor devoted to performing readings. Each bedroom had been converted into parlors with plenty of tables and chairs to accommodate group séances. They walked past three women huddled around an Ouija board as the planchette darted across the letters at an alarming speed. Going up another set of stairs, Lord Rose unlocked the solitary chamber at the top landing and ushered the women inside. The room had once been a small bedroom but now held only a few chairs, a chaise, and windows blocked off from daylight by heavy curtains.
“Miss Jardine, I would like you to take a seat on the chaise and clear your mind.” As the young woman left her aunt’s side and settled on the red, upholstered fainting couch, the nobleman drew a black, silk scarf from his pocket. “The object I am going to give you to read may be familiar to you, so I am going to blindfold you to make certain you are not influenced by the sight of it.”
Emmeline held her breath as a shiver passed over her at his touch. His hands grazed the back of her neck, setting every nerve on end. As he tied the blindfold, he was so close she could feel his breath graze her neck and smell the distinct spices of his preferred brand of tobacco. Her skin flushed and her pulse quickened at the thought of what he might do next.
“I want you to tell me what you see.”
Lord Rose peeled back her fingers and placed something into her palm. As she ran her fingers over the pointed, adamantine surface, the soft din of women’s voices from below the floorboards and Alastair’s heavy tread disappeared only to be replaced by the keening of women and men calling out over the crackling of flames. Across the blackness of the blindfold, her house with its mansard roof, portico, and window boxes rose between the trees, ablaze like a pyre.
“Where is my daughter? Has anyone seen Emmeline? Emmeline! Emmeline!”
“No, Lady Jardine, don’t!”
Madeline Jardine ripped her arm from the maid’s grasp and sprinted into the burning house, her crepe dress streaming around her. Flames burst through the windows, devouring the furniture while the walls stubbornly remained. Smoke poured from every orifice, burning her eyes and staining her face and dress with soot, but she pushed through the parlor and into the hall where she last saw her daughter. Lady Jardine’s eyes swept over the floor, searching for any sign of her only child as she tore open each closet and cupboard. She blinked and held her head as the world spun. It was as if the air had been sucked from the atmosphere only to be replaced by the stifling heat. Inching toward the balcony door, something stirred in the distance. Someone in red was standing near the trees only twenty yards away with a bundle in his arms, safe from the biting heat of the fire’s light. He raised his ember gaze from the girl’s lax features to the woman at the window.
“Emmeline!” she called as a wave of relief passed over her, but as Madeline locked eyes with the man, he turned away and disappeared between the oaks.
“Wait! Emmeline! Bring her back!”
She tried to open the French door, but the lock had melted. Grabbing a smoldering ottoman, Lady Jardine tossed it into the glass. With the rush of night air, came an inferno. The flames swept in from the curtains and reared up until they engulfed the ceiling and carpet, catching the swath of purple crepe. The glass from the broken window sliced into her feet through her silken slippers, but it didn’t matter. Even with the intense heat creeping up her legs and back, the noblewoman pushed out into the autumnal air of the balcony and cried out for her daughter. The man continued his trek into the darkness as the flames climbed up her strands of ebony hair until her head was alight behind her spiked crown, but her byzantine eyes never left the man in red.
“Emmeline!”
As she exhaled, the vision was gone, and all that remained was the artificial void of the blindfold and the piece of metal. With a trembling hand, Emmeline tugged away the silk and sat up on the chaise. Her aunt and Lord Rose stared at her expectantly from their seats across the room, but she could not meet their gazes. In her hand was a charred spike inlaid with bits of jet. She closed her eyes against the burning and only to see the searing flames as they crept up her mother’s dress. One breath came a little quicker than she expected followed rapidly by another. Sobs poured out as Emmeline covered her face with the piece of her mother’s crown clutched in her hand and shielded her eyes. An arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her petite frame closer until it came to rest against a soft cheek. Emmeline looked up expecting to see Lord Rose when her eyes met the green-eyed gaze of Eliza Hawthorne. Her aunt rubbed her shoulders and hugged her to her breast as she wept with childlike abandon.
“What did you see?” Lord Rose asked flatly from his chair near the door.
Eliza glared up at him as she smoothed Emmeline’s dark locks from her face. “How can you ask her that when she is—”
“I saw mama,” Emmeline replied through tears as she straightened and stared down at the point of her crown. “I saw her at Headington Hill in the middle of a fire. She— she was looking for me, but she couldn’t find me.”
“Why would you make her see that? Why would you give her something like this to read?”
He drew near and put out his hand to retrieve the artifact. “It is hardest to read from someone who is so close to you, but she passed the test.”
“I want to keep it.” The girl held the piece near her heart and refused to meet his amber eyes. Him seeing how red hers were would be the final humiliation. “She was my mother, and this is from her crown.”
“Fine. Mrs. Hawthorne, I would like to work with Emmeline at least once a week. That way she will learn to do readings for others and hone her skills as a medium.” Seeing the twinge of betrayal in her eyes, he added, “Nothing will be as upsetting as this time. If I had known, I would not have given it to her. I expected her to see Lady Jardine during happier times.”
Emmeline looked up at her faltering aunt with pleading eyes for her answer.
“If that is what Emmeline wants and as long as she continues her studies at home, then I will allow her to continue.”
Alastair’s eyes glinted. Emmeline had done better than he expected. Her reading confirmed she still did not recognize him as her captor. If she had, he would have simply told her that he rescued her but lost her in the commotion. Leading the women back to the foyer, he smiled at his good fortune. Eliza Hawthorne proved to be much more cooperative than her husband, and if he could control the child, her aunt would fall in line. More importantly, Emmeline was a real medium, which was what the London Spiritualist Society was lacking, but even better, she was a suggestible one.
Chapter Sixteen:
Hesitation
When the doorbell rang, Immanuel darted down the steps but hesitated with his hand only inches from the knob. What if it was that man again? He had come once, and he could always come back. Immanuel pulled back the curtains beside the door and caught a glimpse of unmistakably red hair. With a relieved sigh, he stepped aside to allow Adam Fenice into the foyer. His companion’s eyes ran over Immanuel’s form, immediately noting his downcast gaze and wrinkled clothing. Something was amiss. He looked as he did outside the museum after he calmed down. The terror had passed, but now the guilt of fear remained in each crease and darkened feature. But what had scared him so this time?
“I received your letter when I arrived home from work and came as soon as I could. What did you want to talk about, Mr. Winter?” Adam asked as he followed him into the front parlor but heard not a single voice in the house apart from his own.
Immanuel stared past Adam’s head as his eyes stayed fixed on nothing but a blank spot on the wall. “I don’t know if I can talk about it now.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Inviting you here was a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Fenice, but,” he drew in a breath and exhaled slowly before resolutely tightening his mouth into a straight line, “no one should hear what happened.”
“But why?”
The white of his ink-stained eye glistened. “Because it is too horrible.”
“Then, I must hear it.”
Immanuel’s eyes shifted onto Adam’s face and pierced behind his sockets. Holding him there, he probed for honesty, for the readiness to grasp the gravity of what had occurred, and for the understanding that wounds leave more than misaligned fissures of gnarled flesh. It didn’t take long to find them within Adam Fenice. He had already seen the scars on his soul. The intimate glimpse had occurred in the museum when reality had been ripped from Immanuel’s feeble grasp. He had not judged or pushed him back in line as the others might have. He led him outside, and while standing only inches away, he asked if he was all right. All Adam wanted was to know what was going on inside Immanuel’s mind, and his loyalty had finally gained him admittance. Immanuel’s gaze broke from Adam’s brow and roamed to the street that lay just beyond the pane. This was not a conversation for front parlors or drawing rooms.
“Let’s talk upstairs then.”
Adam followed Immanuel up the two flights of stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. The nightstand sat askew a few feet from the bare bed with the curtains behind it drawn against the afternoon sun. A solitary cushioned chair in the corner faced the wall, but as the redheaded man pulled it closer to Immanuel, he noticed the edges of a pillow and blanket peeking out from under the bed. His companion sighed as he took several sheets of paper off his dresser and studied them before dropping onto the edge of the mattress. Without looking up from the typed page, he pushed the bedding further under the bed-frame with his foot until he was certain Adam could no longer see it.
Immanuel swallowed hard. “How much did Mrs. Hawthorne tell you about what happened to me?”
“Just that you were—” Adam rubbed his wrist. “You were tortured.”
Immanuel smoothed the page he copied from the doctor’s records. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bear to relive all that he went through. To say it was to acknowledge all of the pain and humiliation during those two and a half months in hell. How could he have thought he would be able to tell Adam what happened? The man was staring at him, watching the beads of perspiration collect on his forehead. At least Mrs. Hawthorne had already told him the gist of it. Even if he couldn’t understand it first hand, Adam would know why it was so hard for him to speak of it. If the word barely came from his mouth, how could anyone expect him to be able to recount it?
“We do not have to speak of it if it upsets you.”
“I want to.” His eyes gleamed as he blinked away the burning behind his lids. “I have to, but I do not know how. Here, read this.”
Taking the papers from Immanuel’s trembling hand, Adam scanned James’s account of Immanuel’s injuries on the night he arrived. He had seen the bruise and long wound that bisected his features when he was ill and he knew of the pneumonia, but how he received the injuries was worse than he could have imagined. Bruises, broken ribs, and infec
tions were spelled out in clinical detail. A dislocated jaw. Adam watched Immanuel chew on the edge of his lip. How could something like that even happen? The amount of brutality needed to fracture three ribs or break his eye socket was unfathomable. Covered in offal. He flipped to the next page and swallowed hard. On his back over his right shoulder blade are twelve perfectly circular burns, presumably caused by the application of a cigarette. There was a whole other page of his treatments, all laid out in gory detail. Midway down, he froze. Febrile seizure followed by cardiac failure. Death lasted roughly one minute.
Adam shut his eyes, banishing the image of Immanuel’s lifeless body, but the tremor in his voice remained as he asked, “Why did they do this to you?”
“I do not know.” Immanuel fell silent as his hand trailed to where the gold and silver necklace once was. Would Adam really believe what happened? At least he could tell the beginning. “This all started in August, you know. I was drawing plants for one of my classes the day I saw Emmeline fall into the Thames. When I pulled her out, she was dead.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “When I left Germany, my mother gave me a necklace that had been in our family for centuries and could be used if my life was in danger, or so she said. It had the instructions ‘mix with blood’ at the top, and when I saw her dead, I used my own blood. You will probably think me mad, but at the moment I gave her the elixir, my heart stopped. I felt it. I was certain I was going to die when suddenly her eyes opened and my heart began to beat normally again. I don’t know why they want it, but that potion my ancestors created was the reason I was kidnapped and tortured for two months. He wanted to know what it was made of, but I didn’t know. I don’t know.”
A gentle hand rested on his arm, and for the first time since they came upstairs, Immanuel raised his eyes to meet Adam’s wetted gaze. “But you escaped. That is what you need to remember. You are all right now.”
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 38
